


Swifter than Rumor

by nirejseki



Series: Meme Fills [1]
Category: DC's Legends of Tomorrow (TV), The Flash (TV 2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Western, Centaurs, Explicit Sexual Content, Grooming, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-02
Updated: 2017-04-02
Packaged: 2018-10-14 00:31:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,316
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10525155
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nirejseki/pseuds/nirejseki
Summary: Mick had initially figured he and this Leonard Snart guy would part ways after the next stop – Snart was probably home free, since the mine would undoubtedly blame Mick for the thefts, given the difficulty in successfully stealing from a fully grown centaur without his consent – but Snart had carefully divided his take into approximately thirds and mailed off two of them, keeping the smallest third for himself, and then looked up at Mick and said, “So I’ve got a better idea than what we just did, if you’d like to hear it over a drink. On me, of course.”(centaur!Mick and Len out in the wild west)





	

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [The Start of a Beautiful Friendship](https://archiveofourown.org/works/8069845) by [oneiriad](https://archiveofourown.org/users/oneiriad/pseuds/oneiriad). 



> 100% inspired by and indeed a direct sequel to oneiriad's "The Start of a Beautiful Friendship"
> 
> For the Legends of Super Flarrow kink meme prompt "Coldwave, centaur!AU", prompt 1

Mick had initially figured he and this Leonard Snart guy would part ways after the next stop – Snart was probably home free, since the mine would undoubtedly blame Mick for the thefts, given the difficulty in successfully stealing from a fully grown centaur without his consent – but Snart had carefully divided his take into approximately thirds and mailed off two of them, keeping the smallest third for himself, and then looked up at Mick and said, “So I’ve got a better idea than what we just did, if you’d like to hear it over a drink. On me, of course.”

Mick, who’d just mailed off a non-suspicious amount – little enough to claim was just a hazard bonus from the mine for a particularly difficult explosion set-up – to his mother along with a letter wishing her well, had figured there wasn’t any harm in listening.

Of course, when Snart laid out the plan, it was total bullshit.

Total bullshit that ended up working, mind you, but Mick maintains that that was nothing but the purest luck and talent on his part, given that _he’d_ been the one had to gallop like a goddamn maniac through an extremely tight valley in order to catch the runaway horse with all the bank bills on its back, Snart on his back howling in laughter like a maniac. 

There hadn’t been enough room in there to insist on Snart getting his own horse, so Mick had let him ride again. He wasn’t planning on making a habit of it, certainly not at first, but, well, Snart kept sending off the vast majority of his take and still bought Mick a drink afterwards, so it seemed rather rude to insist he spend the rest of it on a horse. 

Within a few months, though, they’d started getting a reputation. 

Some of it was good: high-skilled (shows what they knew) thieves, fearsome desperados with prices on their heads, law-breakers worthy of respect rather than a noose – as Snart had predicted, given that they went after the mines and the railway and the companies instead of robbing stagecoaches, the sheriffs practically went out of their way to go blind whenever they were in town.

Some of it was…not so good.

Mostly about Snart. 

“Hey, look,” a drunk man mutter to a friend in one town, a bit too loud. “It’s the horse-fucker railway thief.”

“You as good at lifting that Beastie’s tail as you are stagecoaches?” another one in a different town jeered before running away when Snart started to turn around. 

“Some people are just size queens like that,” a prostitute giggles behind her fan to a client.

Mick’s ears may be human-shaped, but he’s a centaur. His sense are far finer, both a blessing and a curse – good to know when someone’s approaching from his blind spot, bad when trying not to startle at unexpected sounds. 

Bad when trying to figure out a way to tell his partner – and Snart did call them partners, sounding quite pleased with himself each time he did – that maybe he ought to think about getting a new partner, or maybe just taking a break or so, for his own reputation's sake. 

Mick couldn’t figure out a good way to bring it up, and at any rate he wasn’t inclined to give up Snart’s company – he talked as endlessly as a hummingbird buzzed, but he didn’t expect a reply half the time and it was nice background noise, and he shared all the chores equally without even the slightest bit of expectation that Mick would do the lion’s share because he’s a Beastie and Snart’s human. Good man, for all that he’s a thief. So Mick figures he’ll let the dice fall where they will.

Snart’s smart. He’ll figure it out eventually, when he starts getting kicked out of places for being too Beastie-friendly. 

It doesn’t end up working out that way.

The first place that turns Mick down but offers Snart an entrance, Snart pulls a gun on the man and tells Mick to torch the place. 

They only end up torching the front desk and the bar, then putting it out – Snart doesn’t want it to spread, since he’s planning on going to the next bar next door when they’re done – but the message gets across pretty fast: Snart and Rory don’t rob anything but the mines and the railways and the big guys, but they’re mighty prone to violence if you turn one of them away.

It only makes the _other_ whispers grow louder.

The ones about Snart, and what he’s getting out of their partnership beyond the money they make. What Mick’s getting out of Snart, so to speak. 

And then one day Snart goes into town alone on one of his knick-knack hunts – purse-lifting, really, not that Snart’s ever been caught doing it as long as Mick’s known him, but also shopping for his baby sister that he left behind and who he sends money to on the regular – and comes back with a big black kit and a grin.

“What’s that?” Mick grunts, trying to twist around to pull one of the burrs out of his back. 

“It’s for you,” Snart says cheerfully, as if this is normal, for him to think of Mick when he goes out to pick out gifts for his loved ones. “So you’ll stop whining so much.”

Mick, who’s never _whined_ a day in his life, thank you, arches his eyebrows.

Snart opens up the kit and it’s – 

It’s horse gear. 

Brushes and picks and stuff, for cleaning them. 

Mick’s wondering what message Snart’s trying to send here, since Snart’s not really the subtle insult sort of guy – puns, yes, oh god so many terrible puns, but he hasn’t made a single Beastie comment the whole time he’s known Mick – when Snart drops himself down onto his knees and pulls one of Mick’s fore-hooves into his lap. 

“Stop _wiggling_ ,” he lectures when Mick makes a motion to try to get away, and then he takes one of the picks and one of the brushes and…

Mick swallows.

He’s had to clean his own hooves, of course, knocking the dirt and grime out of them, but he’s never had someone do it for him, not slow and methodical the way Snart does it, carefully scraping out all the muck and shining each hoof till it almost gleams, brushing the hair down Mick’s leg, smoothing it out. Snart spends nearly a half-hour on each one, Mick keeping still like he’s afraid this’ll vanish if he moves, then moves on to the tail, brushing it out nice and long.

Mick twists to watch him, because he’s had people pull his tail before and he hates it and he wouldn’t exactly put it past Snart to put a bow in it or something like that, but Snart doesn’t do anything like that, just brushes it out. It’s…nice. Relaxing. Almost hypnotic.

And then there’s the brush.

It’s not harsh like the ones Mick’s used to, but soft, instead, gently going through the hair on his body in just the right direction. Again and again and again.

Mick’s started breathing hard, and he thanks that crazy old Scot his mother shacked up with again in his head for the way he'd stressed the benefits of modesty, because this whole thing – the focused look in Snart’s eye, his steady hands, the slow gentle smoothing of the brush over his hair, followed each time by a long stroke of Snart's warm palm – is starting to do something to him.

And then Snart finishes with the brushing and pulls out some sort of lotion. Not some foul-smelling horse stuff, either; it smells lightly of oranges and something deeper. Sandalwood, maybe; Mick remembers his mom burning a stick of the stuff once when a merchant-man came around selling it for cheap.

“S’the only one that didn’t stink of flowers,” Snart says, like an apology. “But the girls down at the saloon swear it’s good for the skin.”

“Skin?” Mick says, taking an extra minute to follow. His horse half didn’t have skin.

“Yeah,” Snart says, rolling his eyes like Mick’s being thick. “It’s for your burns. Soften ‘em up, make it easier to move. Now lie down, it’ll be easier for me to get to you that way.”

Mick gingerly does, lying flat on his belly with his legs folded up the way that’s comfortable for him but not getting dust all over all of Snart’s hard work, and lets Snart run his hands over his back, his shoulders, the back of his neck. Snart’s got good hands, working into the muscles until they release, and Mick’s got to admit he does feel a bit better, his shoulder swinging a little more easily the way it hasn’t ever since that first big explosion.

It’s also a good position to avoid having Snart notice Mick’s growing _feelings_ on the subject.

“You know I’m just gonna get dirty again next time we ride out, right?” Mick points out when Snart’s done and packing up, instead of a thank you. He doesn’t do thank yous. 

“Sure,” Snart says agreeably. “But I got out all the old stuff – think I found a fossil in one of your hooves, you know, I think you had _sedimentary layers_ in there – so that means next time it’ll be quicker.”

“Next time,” Mick croaks.

“The guy at the barbershop said once a week is good,” Snart says. “Least, that’s what he said the ones he worked with back east preferred.”

The _barbershop_. 

Snart hadn’t gone to the horse-flesh dealer, the horse auctioneers, the stablemasters, the cowboys looking for how to deal with Mick – he’d gone to the barbers and found himself one that’d had a business back east, where Beasties had won some level of respectability and even wealth in some circles.

Mick swallows again.

“I’m gonna crash,” Snart says after a moment, when it becomes clear that Mick has nothing to add – luckily not an unusual situation between them, nothing to make Snart suspicious. “ _Fossils_ , Mick. That’s all I’m saying.”

And he does, laying out his bedroll and curling up into a little ball the way he always does – the way he always does when they’re in town, getting a room for two in the back, when any hotel in town would take his money and give him a regular room with a regular bed, fit for any human. 

Mick hadn’t really noticed it before; had assumed that it was because Snart needed the money to send back home, some to his sister, who he loved, and some to his father, who he hated but needed to pay off for his sister’s sake, but it’s also never been a problem before.

Mick gets himself up and takes a quick break outside to go for a run in the brisk night air, at least until he finds himself by a nice pool and sees how his coat _gleams_ , how strong and oiled his muscles look in the reflecting of the moon in the water, and he gives it up for a lost cause and takes care of the problem that’s been developing ever since Snart touched him.

It only really gets worse after that. 

Snart acts like there’s nothing to be shy about, going down on his knees for Mick even in the middle of towns when Mick complains about a rock getting stuck in his hoof, but it makes the whispers go crazy.

And then, one day, the whispers stop being whispers and turn into talk.

Snart's been planning something big, something _special_ , something that'll make them go down in history, but it takes some time and some thought and apparently they haven't been violent enough on their last few jobs - no need, with how slick Snart's planning's gotten - to remind the townsfolk not to mess with them.

That's probably why the asshole that struts up to them in the bar, wearing his big-ass guns on each hip like it's about size instead of skill and in deliberate contravention to the no-gun rule Frankie the barkeep insists on, and says straight to Snart's face, "I'm amazed you can walk given how big a hole your Beastie here must drill in your ass."

Mick tenses, but waits to see how Snart wants to play this: fire? Fists? Guns, somehow?

Snart chooses none of the three, taking another swallow of his beer as if nothing's wrong.

"Ain't you heard me?" the guy snaps. 

"I heard you," Snart says.

"You gonna do anything _about_ it, Beastie-fucker?"

Snart raises his eyebrows. "I was waiting for you to say something offensive," he drawls. "Which you still ain't managed. Is this about me turning you down flat last night? 'cause I keep telling you, the saloon girls that say you're a big irresistible sorta man are only saying it 'cause you pay them to."

The man turns bright red and starts spluttering.

Snart leans forward. "You know how they all say it's the skill, not the size?" he says. "What they're really saying is that you ought to brush on your skills, since you're not bringing anything else to the table."

"You little sonovabitch-" and the guy reaches for his guns, but he's too slow.

Snart's the quickest draw Mick ever saw in his life, though up north at the Central waystation they say there's a man who can beat lightning, and this time’s no different. He manages to get the two steps forward he needs to snatch the guy's own gun from his pocket and point it straight at his face before the guy's even gotten the one he was reaching for all the way out of its holster.

All without putting down his beer.

"Now listen here," Snart says. "You were being crass enough earlier and I did my level best to descend to your level of conversation, all friendly-like, but bringing a man's mother into things?"

He clicks the gun back. "Now that's just rude."

The guy holds up his hands in surrender, face white and his knees shaking. "I - I - I didn't -"

"An apology."

"Sorry," the guy says immediately. "I apologize. I shouldn't've called you a Beastie-fucker -"

Snart rolls his eyes. "About my _ma_ , you fuckwit. And maybe for coming up to a complete stranger and asking about my goddamn ass like it's any business of yours. I told you, I don't find that offensive."

The guy stammers out some apologies and Snart sends him on his way - keeping the gun, of course - and settles back into his seat to finish off his pint.

"Some people," he says, shaking his head and examining the gun. "Look at the size of this monster. Can you say 'compensating for something' any louder?"

Mick grunts in agreement, but his mind's elsewhere, even as Snart starts speculating on where the hell the guy even got it made.

"Maybe you should have it," Snart tells him. "You could handle the recoil on it, and with your extra few feet, it's actually proportional." He beams. "Get it? Extra few _feet_?"

Mick groans. 

That's the one downside of Snart. He did so love his puns. 

He isn't shy about the fact that Mick's a centaur, too, come to think of it. Most people either thought of nothing but it, some others pretended he's just a regular human - sometimes to absurd levels, like inviting him inside a stagecoach as if there was any chance he'd fit or even care to - but Snart's one of those few that didn't shy away from it but rather just accepts it. Facts of nature: sky is blue, sun rises every day, Mick Rory's a centaur.

One of the reasons Mick hadn't decked him yet.

Well, okay, Mick had, but that was because Snart wouldn't stop talking one night when Mick had been awake the three days previous, because where normal people get tired Snart gets hyper, and at any rate Snart had given back as good as he got. For a human using human strength, he'd still managed to land some good hits: he was damn devious, and a dirty fighter to boot.

When they go back to their hotel room that night, Mick finally lets himself think about what's been percolating in his brain all evening.

"Snart," he says.

"Yeah?" Snart replies, not really paying attention - his bedroll was stuck, and he was trying to tug it out without ripping it. Mick'd told him that newfangled method of wrapping it was no good, even if it did save space.

"You mean what you said back there?"

"The bit about using cheese to lure out stagecoach drivers? Not really. I mean, they're mad about cheese out east, not gonna lie, but they're not _that_ crazy – I hope –"

"I meant the bit about you not thinking them calling you a Beastie-fucker is offensive."

Snart blinks at him, owl-like. "Of course not," he says, sounding like he's surprised Mick even asked. "S'just like all the rest, ain't it?"

"What do you mean?"

"Well, my ma always said that the only rule is that you ain't allowed to touch what doesn't want you back, and if they can't think about it right, they can't want. That covers kids, fools, animals, and people saying no thanks. Anything else, it's just people being ugly."

Mick blinks, long and slow. That's an unusual approach, to say the least.

Snart gnaws a bit on his lower lip for a minute, thinking about something. "My ma's Black," he says after a bit, just puts it out there like it’s nothing, even though he’s never breathed a word of it before. "And a Jew. My dad, on the other hand, he's good old German stock, American born and all. As far back as the colonies. And plenty of people told him he was unnatural, you know, marrying her when he got her in trouble. I thought for a long time that was one of his good points, y'know. That he married her anyway."

"It wasn't?"

Snart smiles humorlessly. "He knew she'd be grateful for it and wouldn't leave no matter what he did. And then he took advantage of that every single damn day until she died."

Mick nods in understanding. He's happy, sometimes, that he never knew his dad, not least of the reasons being that he'd have to kill him for what he did to his ma. But that old Scot that took him in was a real stroke of luck. 

"Makes sense," he finally says, since Snart's too sunk in thought to keep going.

Snart blinks out of it, then smiles at Mick. "So it's the same," he says. "If I was the same shade as my ma, you know they'd say the same damn thing about me and anyone who had the bad taste to think me attractive."

Mick frowns at him. "You are attractive," he says, careful to keep his tone casual. "And you know it. You flirt with all the matrons."

"Pretty packaging," Snart says dismissively, finally pulling out his bedroll and blowing out the lantern that lights the room, so that the only light they have is from the moon streaming in through the window. "And a fine set of manners, that's all. Not like they got much to choose from out here." 

Mick snorts. "You'd be a fine pick even back east."

Snart's teeth shine in the dark when he smiles. Actually smiles, what Mick would call fond and even soft if it was on anybody else; nothing like his regular grins and smirks. 

Mick's never mentioned how well he sees in the dark. He's not sure Snart knows.

"Well, we all know your taste doesn't amount for much," Snart drawls, his voice as sharp as always, totally at odds with that little smile that's still on his face. "You bet on the red rooster 'cause you thought it was pretty."

"Shut up," Mick grumbles. He'd lost nearly twenty dollars on that stupid rooster, and Snart will never let him live it down.

Snart had even _bought_ the damn rooster afterwards, just to rub it in; out of lack of anything better to do with it and still thinking its feathers were quite handsome, Mick'd shipped it back home to his mother. Her next few letters had been extremely excited - between the rooster and the money he'd sent, which she hadn't quite figured out what to do with, having never had that much before, she'd gone out and bought herself some hens and now she was selling eggs in the market. 

Mick even had reason to hope she was selling them instead of herself - her last few letters had suggested that the old Scot was thinking of proposing after all these years. He'd tried before, but she'd refused on the basis that she wouldn't get paid as much as a harlot if people knew she was wed; the mentions in her letter had Mick thinking she might've reconsidered her position now that she ran a respectable chicken coop.

So it hadn't been that bad in the end after all, except for Snart harping on about it.

Mick went to sleep himself, still think about that smile.

He'd always thought it was absurd, of course; centaurs might breed with human women, but no human woman would ever _agree_ to such a thing, none except the harlots who couldn't get enough proper business and had become so desperate they couldn't think of what else to do, and Mick had no intention of leaving a woman in the state his mother had been left in.

But Snart didn't think it was offensive. Snart thought it all the same.

Didn't mean he wanted _Mick_ , though. 

Of course, he didn't really seem to want anybody. He smiled just the same at the harlots as he did at the matrons, and he went home with Mick each night anyway, casual as anything. Never even took the time off for a quickie. And it's not like Mick's seen him react badly to anything else...

It takes a long time for Mick to fall asleep.

Mick's never planning on mentioning it, not really, but then they pull off a two-man heist on a _moving train_ , which Mick's pretty sure hasn't ever been done in the United States if anywhere, and when they crack open the bank safe that they'd yanked out of the train, it turns out to have _three times_ the amount it ought to have. 

Judging by the smirk on Snart's face, though, he'd known.

"It was the quarterly update," he tells Mick later, when they're celebrating. "No way to tell when it comes for sure - it's totally random what day in the month they send it, they make sure to switch it up - but I played cards against the local switchflick for a week and he always plays the middle, so I took a chance for him doing the same with this."

"You're a genius," Mick tells him, buzz on victory and riches and two pints already. He'll be able to buy his mother a _house_ with this, and some land of her own to plant it on, besides. 

"Have another," Snart says. "We're celebrating tonight, partner."

He always did say it with such satisfaction, pleased as punch like he's done something smart with it. 

Mick has another, and then a few more after that, too, and it's only when Snart shoots him a look and says, "Time to decide," that Mick realizes he's perilously close to getting into the stage of drinking where it can all too easy tip over into wanting to drink more and more.

And everyone knows what centaurs are like when they get drunk. 

That sobers him up real quick.

“No, thanks,” he says to the next pint.

“You sure?” Snart says. “There’s an old farmhouse, abandoned a dozen years back; we could get rip-roaring drunk and go torch that, no problems.” 

Mick likes the sound of that, but with Snart close at hand, he’s not all too sure if his instincts will go the way they did back at the mine. 

“No,” he says. “Maybe tomorrow. Can do that just as well sober as drunk.”

“Okay,” Snart says agreeably. “Let’s go, then.”

“You don’t have to stop.”

“I don’t drink alone,” Snart says. “If you stop, I stop.”

He doesn’t ask for an explanation as to why their fun is cut short, just pays their tab and heads out, but halfway through the walk home – Snart strolling by Mick’s side for once instead of on his back – Mick just blurts out, “I don’t want to hurt you.”

Snart blinks. “Why d’you think you would?” he asks, instead of protesting that it wouldn’t happen.

It’s probably for the best that Mick tell him now. That way Snart can decide if he thinks Mick’s too much of a danger to be around and if he does, well, it’s good to part ways on a high note like this.

Mick still finds it hard to start.

They’re almost all the way back when he finally manages to say it.

“I like you.”

“Well I should hope so,” Snart says, sounding slightly confused. “We’re partners after all.”

Mick rolls his eyes, the tension flowing out of his shoulders. Goddamn Snart. “I mean I want to fuck you, you _moron_. S’why I can’t go get drunk.”

Snart is silent for what feels like an eternity after that, but is probably only a few minutes.

Mick swallows. If this is it – well. It’s probably for the best that he know now.

“You can’t just say things like that,” Snart finally says.

Mick frowns. “Why not?” he says defensively. “It’s true.”

“No, it’s just while we’re walking – oh, good, there’s a stump outside the house, that'll do. C’mere.”

Mick follows him, by now entirely confused. How is the stump relevant?

Snart hops onto the stump and turns to face Mick. They’re still not eye-to-eye, but they’re closer. “There we go,” he says with satisfaction. 

“So what does this –”

Snart grabs him by the shoulders and reels him in, pressing his lips to Mick’s.

A few second later, he pulls back and scowls at him. “You actually mean it when you said you liked me, or were you just humoring me?” he asks. “Because that was the lousiest –”

Mick grabs him and wheels him back in. Snart’s a fair height for a human, but he’s still nothing to a centaur – easy enough to slide his hands under Snart’s ass and lift him, pulling him closer. Snart seems more than happy to comply, wrapping his legs around Mick’s waist. “Goddamn leather apron,” he mutters into Mick’s mouth between kisses. “I have weird-ass associations with aprons now, all ‘cause of you –”

“I’ve started enjoying your puns,” Mick tells him. “I’ve got a terminal case.”

“Fuck – let me _down_ –“

Mick drops him immediately of course – Snart’s lips are bright red, his cheeks are flushed and he’s grinning, so Mick’s pretty sure he wasn’t misreading this situation – and then Snart climbs back up on the stump and motions for the apron to come off and – oh.

Yes, that _would_ be an excellent use of the height differences between them. 

Like most centaurs, Mick’s half human and half horse; and like most centaurs, he’s got options, so to speak. He’s got his prick right where a human would, out in front; it makes it easier to mate with a human that way. He’s got a fine set of hindquarters, too, if he ever wants to mate with a horse instead, though Mick’s pretty sure centaurs haven’t done that in centuries. 

Snart kneeling on the stump is just the right height to duck his head in and wrap his lips around Mick’s cock. 

“ _Fuck_ ,” Mick hisses, hips jerking a bit. 

Snart just hums happily and wraps a hand around Mick’s hip, using it to steady himself. His other hand’s wrapped around the base of Mick’s cock, controlling how it goes in and out of his mouth, his cheeks hollowed out a little, and Mick’s never had this, never. Not from a harlot, not from a woman, not from anybody.

“Fuck, fuck, _fuck_ , I’m not gonna – you’d better get off –”

Snart ignores him and bobs his head, using his tongue to do something that Mick can’t even bring himself to describe in his thoughts but which causes sparks of pleasure to go up and down Mick’s spine. He also brings the hand that was around Mick’s waist up in front to cup Mick’s balls, thumb running over them and yep, that’s it.

Mick’s coming harder than he ever had in his life, head thrown back and hands grasping at Snart’s shoulders and – god, it’s so good.

Snart swallows as much as he can before pulling back, licking away the remainder that’s splattered on his lips. He smirks at Mick, standing up and looking just as satisfied as he had when they’d cracked that safe open.

He’s also tenting his trousers in a _very_ satisfactory way.

Mick reaches down and presses his palm against him. “Something you want me to take care of?” he asks, pleased by the way Snart gasps when he does. 

“Yeah,” Snart says. “If you don’t mind.”

“You really want me?” Mick has to ask, even though the evidence seems pretty clear in the way that Snart is hastily unbuttoning. 

“Are you kidding?” Snart says. “I thought I’d been pretty obvious about it.”

“The grooming bit?” Mick has to ask.

“Huh? No, that was just ‘cause I thought you’d like it,” Snart says. “I definitely tried propositioning you once or twice, though.”

“You _did_?”

“…maybe a mite too subtly,” Snart concedes, which means the propositions were more-or-less imaginary because Snart doesn’t concede anything he doesn’t have to. “I didn’t want to screw up our partnership by making you feel all weird about it. Now can we get to the business of getting me off already?!”

Mick might not know much about interpersonal relationships, but he’s got the same equipment Snart does, and a hand on one is just as good as a hand on the other. He pulls Snart in close, back pulled tighter against Mick’s chest, his hand working Snart’s cock while the other one slips under his shirt to brush against a nipple – Snart shivers in a _very_ interesting way when he does that – and his chin on Snart’s shoulder. 

“You like this, huh?” he whispers in Snart’s ear, Snart whimpering a little at the breath of warm air against the sensitized flesh of his neck where Mick had been kissing earlier. “Just you wait till later – I’m gonna lift you up and have you against a wall, against a tree, anything I can get to, gonna find a bed for you, put you on your knees for me – gonna make all those whispers come true at last –”

“I’m good with that,” Snart gasps, and then he comes, too.

Looks like Mick wasn’t the only one desperate and quick.

“You know what this means, right?” Snart says.

“What?” Mick asks, scooping his apron up and sliding it back on. It’s tough enough to resist bullets and heat; he likes it and doesn’t want to lose it. 

“Next time someone mouths off, I can let you handle ‘em,” Snart says, looking pleased. “I know you only restrain ‘cause you don’t want me to be insulted.”

Mick snorts. Of course Snart would think about violence now, even when his eyes are clearly drooping and he looks like he’s just going to fall over sideways. 

“Just go to sleep and worry about it tomorrow,” he says. “Partner.”

He’s never used the word before.

Snart looks like that was even better than the orgasm. 

Mick wonders if his mother would mind him coming by to visit, if he explained the circumstances. She always did say that she loved weddings…

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Where The Wild Things Roam](https://archiveofourown.org/works/12713118) by [oneiriad](https://archiveofourown.org/users/oneiriad/pseuds/oneiriad)




End file.
